American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E4 - Blood Ties
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 4: Family matters. Funerals, birthdays, holidays... they're equally bizarre at Murder House. Puts the 'fun' in dysfunctional. Tate has serious mom and dad issues in the past and present. Will a new type of therapy help? Meanwhile, Violet's been spying on him for a change. Written in the style of the show for the avid fan, not the faint-of-heart. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Mama's Perfect Boy

This is**Episode 4** of American Horror Story season 1.5 - Murder House Revisited. If you haven't already, you should probably read the previous episodes or you may be confused. Check my Profile to find them.

* * *

**2018 - Four days ago**

When Tate came in from helping burn the rubber bondage suit he could hear Nora sobbing all the way from the front room. He hadn't heard her cry like that since Joshua had arrived. Concerned, he followed the sound to the sitting room where he found her. She was seated on the floor next to his fallen treasure box. It looked like she had started to clean up the mess but she'd gotten distracted by a square photo that she held. It was the reason she was crying.

Tate was in his little boy guise; when she saw him approaching she recognized him immediately. She never seemed to have a problem knowing him when he looked like a child. Despite her tears she looked glad to see him and she held a bejeweled hand out to him. He went to her and she shifted her position to make a cradle of space for him to sit in, right in front of her.

"That's my baby," she told him, pointing to the infant in the photo.

The picture was one Tate had looked at many times. It was a sepia-toned one of Dr. Montgomery, his wife and his child. They gazed at the picture for a long, silent moment.

"I miss him so much," she said, choking on the words. "His last moments must have been so awful. Wanting mother and not understanding why she won't come..."

She lapsed into a sobbing fit and hugged Tate close. It made his shoulder wet but he didn't mind. He just petted her soft hair, avoiding the blood from the unhealed wound in the back of her head.

"You have a new baby now, remember?"

She hiccupped and looked at him with hope. "I do?"

He nodded and shoved his stuff back in the box. "We can go see him. He's with the nanny."

Nora mopped her face with her handkerchief. "What's his name? I can't remember his name."

Tate picked up his box then offered a hand to her. She took it daintily though she didn't rely on his help to rise. She floated to her feet.

"His name is Joshua," said Tate. "You know. Like the guy in the bible who made the walls fall down when he yelled."

He led her by the hand upstairs to the nursery where he stopped at the door. Vivien was in there next to the crib, watching the baby while he slept. Tate wouldn't let her see him but she noticed Nora and smiled.

"He's sleeping," she whispered. She beckoned the other woman in.

Nora let go of Tate and grabbed her handkerchief with both hands, her hope growing into raw elation. She drifted over to the crib and looked in. The peace and joy she exhibited then was complete. She reached in and gently stroked the baby's cheek.

"My sweet boy," she whispered. "My perfect little angel."

Tate watched them for a few more moments then he turned away. The emptiness gnawed at him inside, a familiar pain that was hard to block out regardless. He hugged his treasure box, getting his tears on it as he headed off into the shadows alone.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**1993 - fall**

16-year-old Tate liked playing Raiden in his _Mortal Kombat_ video game because the character could throw lightning. He liked Scorpion because he had a hook-whip that could tear out an opponent's middle. But he liked Sub-Zero the best because his Special Move involved decapitating an opponent and pulling out his spine. It was the bloodiest Fatality in the game.

The over-the-top graphics made him and Addie laugh. She wasn't any good at the fighting game but she loved to watch Tate play against the computer. He would fight for hours. Every time he managed a particularly grisly Fatality, they would cheer. Beau didn't get to watch; he was chained up in the attic all the time by then.

Then Lawrence, mom's boyfriend and current owner of Murder House, took the game away. He said it was a 'bad influence'. He thought they might get unhealthy ideas from software that depicted bloodshed. Constance had let him take it. So Tate was stuck back in the house of nightmares without his favorite pastime to distract himself with.

Not that it was all bad. He liked seeing Mrs. Nora again. He had missed her a lot. She had trouble remembering who he was now but he could always find a way to remind her. Apart from her he hated being back in the house. All the other things in it he could do without. Especially Lawrence.

Lawrence. Larry. What a fucking creep he was. Ugly like a bald rat. He was always trying to be friends with Tate. Always acting like there was nothing wrong. Like everything was abso-friggin-lutely normal.

Tate started sneaking out at nights. He didn't have anywhere to go and, without being able to drive, he couldn't go far. But he went. He wandered alleys, mostly. Whenever he went out on the streets a cop invariably found him. He hadn't actually been caught at that point - he was too fast a runner - but he preferred to stay in the shadows.

Then he got a paintball gun.

There were several parks close by that he could get to and he discovered the liberated joy of sneaking through the dark areas at night looking for couples and bums to target. They never saw him coming. Pop-pop. A necking couple were splattered in green paint. Pop-pop-pop. A passed-out homeless lady would wake up very confused the next day, covered in orange paint.

When he eventually got caught after targeting an undercover officer by mistake, his mother had thrown away the paintball gun. Tate had tried to rescue it from the dumpster but she'd broken it to pieces.

Tate had a new toy now, one only he knew about. He'd just started learning how to play with it. It was a semi-automatic handgun. A nice gun show purchase, no questions asked. Ammo was cheap at Wal-Mart. He practiced putting the safety on and taking it off. He'd taken it to the indoor shooting range and tested it a few times but he would need a lot more practice before he was ready to use it for real. He wanted to make sure he could hit what he wanted to aim at.

He sat on the edge of his bed, admiring the gun. He lifted it and looked down the shiny barrel. The weight of the gun felt good in his hand.

"Bang," he said and pulled the gun back like the kick would have done if he'd fired the weapon.

He lowered the gun and clasped it with both hands. He imagined good ol' Larry opening the door and coming in. He lifted the gun again and pointed it at imaginary Larry's head. He imagined the surprise on his face. Would he know it was real? Or would he think it was a toy? Maybe he'd come closer; try to take the gun away.

"Bang," Tate said again.

Imaginary Larry fell to the floor. Imaginary Larry died.

Tate smiled.

...

Halloween night Tate and Addie sat on the couch watching _The Hills Have Eyes_. Addie was wearing her old Care Bear costume and had her pillow case ready to go. She was five years older than he was but she still wanted to go out trick-or-treating after the movie was over.

"I want to go to Nevada," Tate told her as they watched a deformed man chase after a screaming woman covered in blood. "I want to see the craters. Nuclear blasts are so cool. They're like... man's most potent orgasm. Boom! They're even shaped like dicks."

"I don't like bombs," Addie said. "They... mess up the planet."

Tate gave her a flat look. "So do people. But you like them."

Addie shrugged. "People don't explode."

"Tate, where's your costume?" Constance asked in surprise from the doorway.

Tate folded his arms and stared steadfastly at the television. "I'm wearing it."

He was wearing a black sweater, black jeans and his long black coat. In short, he looked like he did almost every day these days.

Constance was in no mood to put up with his attitude. She had a theater troupe party to get to. "Go put on your costume or you're not goin' trick-or-treatin'," she said as she put on her glittering black widow earrings.

"Maybe I don't want to go," Tate answered back, still staring at the television.

Addie frowned. Tate had never missed trick-or-treat.

Constance came over and turned off the television. Then she moved over to the couch and bent so she could get face to face with her son. He looked at her grudgingly.

"Go put on your costume and take your sister out for trick-or-treat," she said. Her words were deceptively calm but her gaze was deadly.

He knew better than to argue. He slid away from her and off the couch. He went upstairs, his mood growing blacker with each step. He didn't want to go out. He didn't want to wear the stupid baseball costume she'd bought. He didn't even play the stupid sport. He had wanted to go as Ash from _Army of Darkness_ but mama had forbidden it, even without the fake chainsaw arm.

He passed the master bedroom and paused. Larry was in there getting his costume on. Constance and her lover were wearing coordinating red and black devil costumes. They looked stupider than stupid, to Tate. Larry was trying to put on his tie without the aid of a mirror. He had his back to the door.

Tate smiled. Quietly he entered the bedroom. Looking around, he saw a shoehorn on the nearby dresser and grabbed it. Then he carefully crept over to where the man was struggling with his neckwear. Tate grabbed him by the forehead and hauled him backward so he could press the shoehorn to the man's neck, hard.

Larry didn't know it wasn't a knife. He didn't even know who had him. "Don't hurt me!" he squealed.

That made Tate laugh hysterically. He staggered back from the man, laughing so hard he could barely stand.

"That wasn't funny!" Larry said.

Tate stopped laughing but he couldn't stop grinning. "I scared you," he said, quite proud of himself.

Larry saw the shoehorn then and turned away, embarrassed. "You shouldn't try to scare people."

"But I like it," said Tate. "It gets me hard. You know what it's like to get wood. You stick it to my mom often enough."

Larry looked at him in a mixture of disgust and impatience. "I really need to get ready, Tate. Please leave."

Tate rolled his eyes and ambled toward the door. "My mother's dating the devil. This explains so much about my fucked up life." He tossed the shoehorn down on the dresser and left the bedroom.

He went to his room, shut the door and leaned back against it. Then he sagged down to sit on the floor. Then he put his head on his arms. He wanted to stay right there all night. But he knew his mother wouldn't let him. Either that or Addie would come pestering. He looked over at the bed and the stupid baseball costume Constance had put there.

Then he had an idea.

...

"What're you supposed to be?" Addie asked when he finally came downstairs.

Tate grinned. He felt light-headed, detached. Happier than he had in days. "I'm a zombie," he said. "A zombie baseball player."

It hadn't taken much effort to cut the costume to tatters. Several fresh cuts on his wrists had provided the blood. He'd nicked some of his mother's makeup to create the dark circles and bruised lips but the ashen complexion was all-natural, thanks to blood loss. It was even better than his Michael Meyers costume last year.

"Come on," he said to his sister with a sneaky look about. "Let's go trick-or-treat." He didn't want his mother seeing what he did to the costume she paid for.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Welcome back! This episode's theme is family. Can't you just feel the love already?

This time it's not just me rushing. I actually had encouragement so that's why I've already posted this. If I go too fast, feel free to stick a leg out in front of me. Or just ask me to slow down.

So the 2018 dates get a little funny every now and then. Hopefully it's verbose enough to help you sort out when in the timeline stuff is happening. Generally it stays pretty linear so it shouldn't be too hard to follow. I hope? I'd apologize in advance for any emotional scarring this episode may cause but if you've made it this far into Season 1.5, you should already have an idea of what you're getting into by now. Maybe.


	2. Chapter 2 - Visiting Hours

**2018 - Three days after the earthquake**

"If you don't mind my asking... How long has your son been staying next door?" asked Father Jeremiah over coffee.

Breakfast was over and Michael was in the living room watching cartoons. Jeremiah and Constance could see him from where they sat at the table.

Constance put her hands around her cup but didn't lift it. She just looked into the black, alcohol-laced liquid. "Since the day he died... in 1994."

Father Jeremiah's brows shot up. "Oh. I see. Do the current owners... They know about him?"

She set her cup down gently. "Yes. They are... aware of him." She got up and went over to where she kept her picture of her son and daughter - the last one she got of them together. She lovingly brushed a finger next to Tate's smile. So rare then. So rare now. "Tate. My boy." She handed the framed photo to the priest. She curled her hand to her chest like she was cradling a memory. "That's him there, with his sister. Adelaide. Addie."

Jeremiah took the picture and looked at it. He'd seen it in the kitchen, of course. But Constance had many photos on her walls and she didn't speak of anyone in them. Looking closer at the two people in the picture, he was again struck by the sense that he'd met the young man before.

He gave the frame back to her. She returned it to its home on the counter.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"The world gave me four children," she said bitterly as she sat back down. "And it ripped them away again. Talking about it is... heartache." She lit a cigarette and turned her attention to Michael in an attempt to stop herself getting misty-eyed. It didn't work; her eyes filled with tears anyway. "You see, it wasn't enough for my babies to die. Oh, no. This place has two of them trapped in that house." She looked back over at the priest. "It might have me too. Maybe it's just that God knows that my children - and Michael - still need me."

"Two of them?"

Constance nodded while she inhaled smoke. "Tate and Beauregard. Beau. He's the... gentlest..." Her tears overcame her ability to speak. She set her cigarette down and went for a tissue to blot her face with.

"I'm so sorry, Constance," Jeremiah said. "I don't mean to cause you more pain."

She waved her hand to dismiss the apology. Once she'd finished cleaning herself up she returned to the table. "My pain has nothin' to do with you. But it has everythin' to do with why I've stayed here all these years."

"Yours is the most unusual situation I've ever heard of or known," Father Jeremiah admitted. He would like to know more, in fact, but he didn't want to press her on such a sensitive subject. "But I'll help you in any way I can."

She smiled radiantly at him and put her hand on his. "I know you will, Jeremiah. You've already done so much. And for that I am truly grateful."

Billie Dean came in then, dressed for the day in a sporty top and pleated skirt. "Good morning," she bid them both. Then: "Ready?" she asked Constance.

Constance nodded and put out her cigarette. "Billie Dean and I are goin' next door for a bit. Watch Michael?"

The priest agreed and the ladies left. After they left he checked on Michael then went and got an old book out of his collection. He settled in the living room with it where he could keep an eye on his ward while he did some research.

**...**

Billie Dean and Constance entered the old mansion through the back door. Billie Dean wanted to contact Violet but she wasn't about to go into Murder House alone after Tate's reaction last time.

"Violet?" Billie Dean said. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to. "It's Billie Dean. I'm here."

The teen girl appeared near the center island with a smile. She wore winter clothes because they suited her mood since she didn't have to worry about the weather. "It's good to see you," she said. She extended her smile to Constance, who returned the look gracefully.

Billie Dean smiled and moved to embrace the girl. "It's good to see you, too, Violet." The medium stepped back but kept her hands on her slender shoulders. She looked at her sincerely. "How are you?"

Constance lit a cigarette and leaned against the counter. She'd only had two puffs when she saw Tate skulk by the hall doorway. He glared at her. She didn't react. She just kept alert.

"I'm all right I guess," Violet said in a tone that said otherwise. "Weird shit's been happening lately."

"I know," said Billie Dean. She gave the girl a reassuring squeeze then let go. "It's not just you."

Tate slunk by the doorway again, closer this time. Constance sucked one more drag from her cigarette then put it out. "Excuse me just a moment, ladies," she said and headed into the dining room.

Billie Dean knew her friend was going to deal with the one spirit that she was leeriest of so she didn't mind being left alone with Violet. She felt confident she could handle just about anything else the house might throw at her.

"So... Your email was vague," she said to the younger woman. "What's been going on?" She lit a cigarette and then offered one to Violet.

"I don't know. My dad..." Violet took the cigarette. Billie Dean lit it for her. "You know Patrick and Chad?"

"Yes. The gay couple."

Violet nodded. "My dad and them... I guess they've been doing something with Tate. It's like they've been... I don't know. Reprogramming him or something. I don't really know for sure."

Billie Dean frowned. "Reprogramming?" She reflected on the events of yesterday. "I don't understand what you mean."

"I don't really either," admitted Violet. "I tried talking to my dad but..." She shook her head and sucked on her cigarette again. "I don't know. He's been acting kind of weird in general, the past couple of months. He's been spending a lot of time with that creepy doctor in the basement."

Billie Dean leaned on the island and lightly tapped her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. "Doctor Montgomery?" Her neatly-plucked brows arched briefly. "He built this place, for his wife."

"Yeah," Violet said, expression flickering. Tate had told her about the Montgomeries. "I've seen them and their baby. Doctor Montgomery asks me if I want an abortion every time I go down in the basement."

"I'm glad I don't see him more often," Billie Dean said with a tight smile. She sucked on her cigarette and looked at the teen, weighing how much she thought the girl could handle. She decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Violet, the evil in this house is spreading. It's already covered Constance's house now as well as this one."

Violet stared at her.

"Whatever's behind it wants to get out," the medium said, exhaling smoke with the words. "And it's succeeding."

"Is there anything we can do?" Violet asked.

Billie Dean shook her head. "I don't know. Possibly. I'll know better when I've talked to some of the others."

Violet pulled on her cigarette one last time then snuffed it in the ashtray. "Do... Do you think I should... see Tate?"

Billie Dean regarded the girl thoughtfully. "I think you should do what you feel you have to. But _please_ be careful Violet. We tend to find what we look for. If you do see him it might be best if he doesn't see you."

Violet nodded, seeing the wisdom in her words.

"I'm going to be here for the next two weeks," Billie Dean said. "But hopefully we'll know better what to do in just a couple of days. If you need me - for anything - I'm right next door. I'll give you my cell number. You know Constance's?"

"I... don't think so. I don't have a phone," Violet said. "They cut mine off a few years back. I've got an Instant Messenger program on one of the laptops though. We can leech internet off the neighbors but there's no way I've found to leech phone service."

Billie Dean considered that. "I haven't used anything like that but I can bring my tablet by this evening if you think you can help me set it up."

"Sure," said Violet. "Just don't leave it unguarded. Someone _will_ take it."

...

Constance found her teenage son just outside the room looking very unhappy. She took him by the arm and steered him out to the central hallway, away from the kitchen. He went with her but he sulked silently the whole way.

"What are you doin'?" she said.

Tate folded his arms. His fingers disappeared into the sleeves of his flannel shirt. "Why'd you bring that lady back here? Why's she talking to Violet?"

"They're friends, sweetheart. Friends do that," Constance said patiently.

"Are they talking about me?" He looked over her shoulder back in the direction of the kitchen.

"I really don't know," his mother said. "You need to let them have their space."

"Why does that lady hate me so much?" Tate asked. He looked at Constance with red-rimmed eyes. "I never did anything to her."

Constance sighed and brushed his messy hair back so she could see his face better. "She doesn't hate you. You're just a strong presence, sweetheart. She's sensitive."

That didn't make Tate feel better. "I don't like her."

"You don't have to like her," Constance said, her tone cooling. "But she's my friend and I won't have you scarin' her."

Tate didn't like the subject anymore so he changed it. "Why didn't you tell that priest guy about me?"

"What should I have said? I had a son but he's dead now?" Constance asked defensively, unfazed by the sudden change in topic. She'd managed her son for too many years to be thrown so easily.

"That's what other moms would do," Tate guessed, just as defensively. There were hurt and angry tears in his eyes.

"Other moms. Do you think it's easy bein' the mother of a-" She waved a hand at the whole of him. "Boy like you? I'm doin' the best I can. I'm_ tryin'_ to raise your son."

Tears spilled down Tate's cheeks. "Do you love me?"

"Of course I do, sweetheart! What a silly question."

Constance pulled him in for a hug and ran her fingers through his hair. He didn't resist but he didn't hug back either. He needed more convincing.

"Is this about yesterday?" she asked. "I was angry with Michael, honey. Not you. He's a willful child. Like... some other children I've known."

She gently pushed him back and cupped his face in her hands. He pouted at her.

"You like him better than me," he said.

"What?" She blinked a few times, taken aback. "Tate, you are my son. I will always love you more than life itself. Nothin' will ever change that." She made sure he was looking at her when she said: "You will always be my baby."

He found that somewhat comforting. "I miss you," he said and finally hugged her.

She smiled and brushed his damp cheek with the heel of her palm. "I miss you too, sweetheart. Time just gets away from me. I'll try to stop by more often."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Now, I need to get back," said Constance, petting his cheek lovingly. "I'll come back around later this week. I've got a present for you."

For the first time that day, Tate's unhappy look eased. "What is it?"

"It's a surprise," his mother said. "Run along now. I'll see you later."

She gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek and headed back to the kitchen. Tate's unhappy look returned.

**...**

**1984**

"Mama," Tate sobbed. "Mama!"

It was the middle of the night and the shadows were long across the ceiling. Mean boys in striped shirts had woke the 6-year-old by throwing his toys around and calling him bad names. He told them to go away and they did but he was scared more bad things would come so he didn't want to get out of bed. He'd been calling his mother for a while but she didn't come. She couldn't hear him; she was out cold thanks to Valium and Johnny Walker. He didn't know. He was afraid the monsters had gotten her.

He cried and cried and finally the door to the hall opened. But the pale blonde lady who came in wasn't Constance. It was Mrs. Nora. She looked like her heart was breaking. She came to him with her arms out and he stopped crying. She sat down on his bed and he crawled into her embrace. He wiped his face on the layers of ruffles that made up the collar of her dressing robe then he hooked his arms around her neck.

Mrs. Nora was cool, like the air from the refrigerator, and she smelled like lavender dusting powder. She shifted and rearranged him so that they could sit snugly, her arms around him and his around her. It didn't matter to Tate that she wasn't warm. She was there. She was familiar and gentle and kind. She pet his hair and rocked him slowly and kept the bad things away.

"It isn't right," she murmured to herself. "They shouldn't do this to a child. How can they? It's absolutely deplorable. Irresponsible. If you're going to wipe yourself out on liquor and cigarettes, have the decency to hire competent help!"

She kissed the top of his head then, to reassure him that he wasn't the cause of her distress. "You're all right now though, aren't you?"

He nodded but he kept his face mashed into her robe and his arms around her neck. He wasn't crying and he wasn't scared but he also wasn't ready to be let go. "Tell me a story?" he mumbled.

"A story?" Nora said. She kept rocking him side to side. "I'm afraid I don't really remember any of the ones my nanny used to tell me..."

"Tell me a story about you."

"About me?" she was flattered to the point of tears. It had been decades since she'd heard anyone ask her about herself. "Well. When we came out here, this house wasn't even built yet. Can you imagine that? The city didn't exist. All around were dirt roads and fields."

Tate shifted a little so he could hear her better. "Did you build the house?"

"My husband Charles had it built. It took an eternity but..." She sighed and smoothed his short blond hair with one hand. "It was worth the time. He had the glass for the front windows imported. And the chandeliers."

Tate had no interest in the architectural details of the house even though he wanted to listen to her voice. As late as it was, hearing her ramble on about how the window casings were ordered specifically to match the banister of the central stairs worked better than any faerie tale could. He was asleep for nearly an hour before she noticed. But she held him a while longer anyway.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

I listened to Pink Floyd's "Mother" (the movie version, not album) quite a bit while writing Blood Ties. There's a great clip from the movie on YouTube. It's the clip that starts out with the guy in bed, hanging up the phone. You can find other song suggestions in my Profile.

Episode 4 is kind of inverted: Next chapter there's a funeral and it's probably going to be the _least_ emotionally trying moment in the whole episode. So enjoy the funeral while it lasts. It's all a downward spiral from there.


	3. Chapter 3 - Funeral Day

**2018 - Weekend after the earthquake**

The end of July was an uncomfortable time of year due to the weather. Regardless, Constance wanted her funeral held outdoors. She couldn't be there in person - she found she couldn't leave the boundary of the two properties - but she dictated a litany of instructions to Billie Dean and Father Jeremiah. They made sure the service was put together as she liked.

7-year-old Michael found the whole thing as dull as most children find weddings. He knew Mama Constance wasn't really in the box. She was at home making lunch for when they got done. He didn't understand why they were even having the burial ceremony. He didn't know that there were people there who would never see Constance again. Their tears and sad looks made no sense to him.

While Father Jeremiah gave the eulogy Michael sat in the front row of folding chairs beside Billie Dean, swinging his legs. His suit was making him hot and itchy. He saw something move in his peripheral vision and looked that way. Across the grassy stretch of cemetery lawn he saw an elderly woman near an obelisk. He could see right through her. She was watching the funeral. She looked sad. Michael tipped his head and waved at her. She looked surprised but she lifted a hand and waved back.

Then people were getting up. They were filing by Mama Constance's coffin. Michael got up but he didn't follow Billie Dean. He slipped through the milling people and looked for the see-through lady. She was still by the obelisk.

He trotted over to where she stood and looked up at her, squinting against the sunshine. "Hi."

"Hello there," the lady said. "Now how is it you can see me?"

Michael shrugged. "I dunno. You sound like Mama Constance."

"Mama Constance?" The lady said. "Aww. Bless your heart. I'm so sorry, sugar. I'm Bertie. I knew your mama."

"How come you're not at her basket?"

The old lady chuckled. "It's a casket, sugar." She looked over at the funeral and looked sad again. "I'll visit her when the livin' have all gone home."

"You're dead?"

Bertie looked back down at the boy and she smiled again. "I am. What's your name, sug?"

"Michael."

"Well, Michael, I died before you were born."

"Do you live in the graveyard?"

Bertie chuckled again. "So many questions. Yes, sugar, I do. Lots of folks do."

He looked around. "I don't see anybody else."

"Oh, they're hidin'. A lot of dead folk don't like to be around the livin'." She gave him a knowing look. "It drains 'em. Makes 'em weak."

"Michael!" Billie Dean was calling him and heading his way.

He looked over at her then back up at the ghost lady. "I gotta go. Bye, Bertie."

"You take care now," she said. She watched him run off and went back to waiting for her turn to pay her respects.

...

Since she couldn't attend the service, Constance made use of the time during her funeral to go next door. She'd heard from Billie Dean about Violet's conversation with Chad and she wanted to know for herself what was going on. She had only brought Michael over to the house a handful of times; she'd always assumed the family act was simply for show. She found it disturbing to think that the gays might be deliberately trying to influence her son on a personal level. The idea of a family between them was so foreign an idea it never crossed her mind.

As soon as she let herself in she headed for the stairs. "Chad?" she called loudly. In an undertone she added: "Where are you, you pretentious yuppie queer?"

She reached the landing and saw him there, leaning against the top banister.

"What do you want, Matron Clairol?" he said snidely. "Lose your grandson again? Maybe you should try one of those shock collars. Set it to go off every time he leaves the yard."

Constance suffered an urge to strangle him with his own knotted cardigan. She settled for glaring at him. "What have you been doing with my son?"

Chad looked mildly surprised, then smug. "Only what you haven't. Ever." He could tell she didn't understand so he clarified in an exaggerated show of patience. "Parenting. After four years of work, Pat and I almost have him housebroken. Come back in a few more years and he might actually be show-quality."

The woman looked disgusted, which only fed Chad's dark joy at her expense.

"Gay men?" she said. "Parenting? You're insane. My boy doesn't need a couple of fairy queens to teach him how to be a man."

"Right, because you taught him _so_ much about life," Chad sneered. "How long before you bury Michael? Have you picked out a gravestone yet?"

Constance marched over and tried to slap him but he caught her wrist.

"I'm not one of your offspring," he said. His words were ice despite the smile. "Touch me and I _will_ rip your face off."

She pulled away but didn't try to hit him again. "Stay away from my boy," she said in a voice that shook with fury.

She turned on a heel and headed downstairs. Chad watched her go. He smiled, quite satisfied with himself.

Constance got to the bottom of the stairs and looked around. "Tate?" she called. "Baby?"

"I'm here."

He was standing in the entryway to the living room, looking very much like the day he died - right down to the dark clothing and unhappy expression. She went over to him and looked at him closely, searching his face.

"Tate, honey," she said, petting one of his cheeks lightly with the back of her hand. "Sweetheart. You haven't been spendin' your time with those gays when I'm not here, have you?"

He frowned. "Why?"

"I know you told Michael and Jeremiah they're your family for appearance's sake but... Well. When you walk through mud, mud tends to cling," she said. She straightened his sweater collar. "You don't want to... pick up any of their 'habits'."

Tate knew exactly what she was insinuating. "You can't catch gay like a cold, mother."

Constance hated to talk about the matter in such a blunt way. But she checked her reaction and patience. "There are other people you could spend your time with."

"Like who?" Tate challenged. "You never come over. You won't let Michael come without you. Doctor Harmon's the only other person here who'll even talk to me besides them and Mrs. Montgomery." It was an exaggeration but he believed it in the moment. "I'm lonely. They'll talk to me."

"They're not goin' to help you get where you want to be," she said, trying to reason with him.

"And being by myself is?"

"Associatin' with homosexuals will only put more sin on your soul," she said in all seriousness. "And that's the last thing you need. Whatever it is you've been doin' with them... It needs to stop."

Tears shone in Tate's dark eyes but he'd taken on an unreadable expression. "Where's my present? You said you were going to bring me one."

She looked at him, frustrated. She didn't want to have the subject shunted aside but she also didn't want to fight with him. Not during her funeral. The whole matter of being buried had her feeling very out of sorts and more than anything she just wanted to see him smile.

Constance reached into a pocket and pulled out a small key. She'd kept it in her safety deposit box, which Father Jeremiah had opened for her after the reading of her will. She wasn't about to tell Tate that; she planned to keep him unaware of her death. "In the attic you'll find a small black chest. It should be somewhere back near the pipes. I'd meant to... to give it to you when you-"

She broke off, finding herself too close to tears to talk about a graduation that would never happen. She collected her composure with effort and pressed the key into his hand. She cupped his hand in hers then she hugged him again. He looked at the key but he didn't smile. He looked confused.

"There you go," she said quietly. "I need to... get home. Be good, sweetheart."

She kissed him on the head and swept out of the house. Then she went home where she laid in bed and cried until the rest of her household returned from the funeral.

Tate watched her leave then looked at the key again. He'd been feeling pretty rotten the past few days and wasn't sure what to think of the gift. It could be something interesting. But knowing his mother it was just as likely to be something that would upset him.

He shoved the key in his back pocket.

**...**

**1994 - February**

Valentine's Day was a stupid holiday, in Tate's opinion. He was sure it was invented by merchandisers to sell cards and candy. It was created to make single people like him feel like losers. He personally thought the school should have a strict policy against V-day PDAs but no one asked him. The school even encouraged the nonsense by selling "candy-grams" for a dollar in the cafeteria. For one measly buck you could send a candy bar to the girl or guy of your choice. What a scam.

Tate hated the red balloons. He hated the fake girls toting their red balloon bouquets down the hall, blocking his view and making him late for class. He hated how the rich guys competed with each other over who could buy their girl the biggest stuffed animal. Always pink or white with a stupid red bow.

He hated how, when he got home, Larry had bought Constance enough red roses to fill three stupid vases downstairs. Yes, V-day should be outlawed.

He took his backpack to his room then he went upstairs to the attic. Tate and Beau were the only ones home at that time - Addie was at her special enrichment program for another hour, Larry was at work and Constance was at her weekly hair appointment. So Tate brought his older brother a snack of slightly squished cupcakes that he'd gotten from the school vending machine. While Beau smashed the cakes into his mouth, Tate unfastened the chains from the cuffs that kept him hooked to the bed.

"You're lucky, Beau," he said. "You don't ever have to know about V-day. It's so stupid."

Beauregard laughed and smashed more cake into his mouth.

Tate smiled. "You always know what to say to make me feel better."

Beau tried to share part of the cupcake with Tate but he waved it away. "No. That's for you. I saved it for you. Eat it. I don't want it."

He wasn't trying to be harsh. It's the only way he could make Beau understand that the gift was meant for him alone. His older brother didn't understand that he wasn't being fed enough. Tate did; he just didn't know what more to do about it. Cupcakes were something Beau didn't get much of anymore so that's what Tate brought him. Mama still didn't let Tate use the kitchen at all so cupcakes were easy to get a hold of.

Beau laughed and gobbled the squished cake down. Crumbs went everywhere but there was already stuff all over the floor from previous meals. No plates, just crumbs and bits and pieces. The cake wouldn't be noticed.

"Let's play hide 'n seek," Tate said once his brother had finished eating. "You hide first. I'll count."

It was never a hard game to play with Beau but it was one they both enjoyed, even though Tate was 17. Beau loved to seek and Tate loved to jump out and scare him. When Addie got home and found them romping around, she joined the fun too. She fell happily between her brothers where it came to wanting to hide and wanting to scare. With the three of them playing, it was almost like before they moved back to Murder House.

And then Larry showed up.

"Addie, Tate, you need to wash up for supper," he said, smiling all nice.

Addie smiled back at him and headed down the ladder. Tate didn't. Beau went back to his bed and sat on it. He was always so eager to please. Larry smiled at him. Beau squealed with delight.

"Tate," said Larry. "It's time to go downstairs."

"You shouldn't chain him to his bed," said Tate. He wasn't buying the man's soft words or smiles.

"It's what your mother wants," said Larry.

"I don't see her chaining him."

Larry spread his hands like he was helpless. "You'll just have to talk to her about it. She's downstairs now."

Tate glared at him for a moment or two longer then went to the ladder, hating the way it felt to have to walk away. He could hear Larry moving the chains, putting them back on Beauregard. Tate went down to the hallway below and thought really hard about going and telling Constance where she could stick her chains.

But he didn't. He just went to the bathroom and cut himself a few times. It was the best red he'd seen all day.

...

They had dinner and everyone pretended everything was normal, even though Beau was chained to his bed high up in the house. No one could hear him at the table. Larry had brought home heart-shaped boxes of chocolates for Constance and Addie; of course Constance's was the bigger of the two. They all ate and pretended and it all seemed so surreal to Tate.

Without Beau constantly interrupting things by throwing his plate or screaming the mealtime was far more peaceful but it had become like a weird scene out of a 70's horror film, the kind where everyone finds out at the end that the roast beef they'd been eating was actually Beau. Not that he thought his mother would really cook his brother. Maybe one of the dogs...

Dinner was over and Tate was in a horrible mood. He'd tried to occupy himself with television and books but he was too irritated to sit still. What he really wanted to do was hurt something. Not himself. His wrists still tugged with freshly healed wounds that hadn't made him feel better. He wanted to hurt Lawrence. He found himself standing outside the master bedroom, fists clenched, body tensed. He wanted very badly to erase Larry. Make him go away forever and stop ruining Tate's family.

The door was slightly ajar. He crept up to it, thinking how easy it might be to strangle the man using a pair of Constance's silk stockings. But Larry wasn't alone in the bedroom when Tate peeked in. He and Constance were wrapped in an embrace, kissing and touching intimately. Constance was only wearing a bra and slip. Larry looked like a dork in a button down shirt and tidy whitey underpants. If Tate had his gun he could shoot the guy in the side of the head; it was a clear shot from where he stood.

Almost like she could read his mind, Constance looked over at the door then. She broke off the kiss gently then came over to the door. She made eye contact with Tate and gave him a look that almost challenged him to do something about what was going on. Then she shut the door. A moment later Tate heard her lock it.

Hurt and pissed off, Tate left the doorway and took his stormy mood downstairs in search of Mrs. Nora. He found her easily; he always did. She was with Dr. Charles but she left off haranguing her husband when Tate showed up.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" she demanded.

It wasn't the reception Tate had hoped for. Not that it surprised him, but it didn't help his mood. "It's me. Tate. You used to sing to me sometimes. I'm just older now."

She looked at him in confusion then gave a little nod. Something had clicked, vaguely. Still not what Tate was hoping for.

"The woman upstairs has to get rid of those lamps in the foyer. They are completely wrong," said Nora. "I've told her several times to throw them out. I really don't know why we even pay for help when they can't follow basic instructions."

Tate sighed and turned away. He left the Montgomeries to their memories and went back upstairs.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

I know it's a lot of hurt right now and not much comfort. In the flashbacks that's a good deal why Tate goes postal: Not enough hugs. Next chapter has a little more hugging and some crafting, if that helps any. It's the best I can offer because as I said last chapter... It's a downward spiral after the funeral. Sorry, but it just has to be that way for a while. But if you can tough it out, I'll reward you with sex in later chapters. I'm not completely heartless.

So who's the better mom, Constance or Chad?

Check my Profile for soundtrack suggestions.


	4. Chapter 4 - Which Craft

**2018 - day after the funeral**

Maria approached the sinkhole in the back yard, getting close enough to look down into its dark depths. It was a lure to the dead nursing student, one she'd been watching from the window since it opened up a week ago. She didn't know why it attracted her so. That's why she finally decided to go downstairs to check it out.

Getting close to it didn't resolve the strange feeling. Neither did looking into the hole. So she stood there, gazing into the black well, trying to sort out what it was that compelled her. It was just a hole. She had never seen a sinkhole before but it didn't look like anything special. Yet the draw it had was undeniable.

She stood there for a long time before resisting the hypnotic effect. She knew if the twins saw her just standing there in the yard for hours they would tease her for it so she decided to go back inside. She could consider the puzzle of the hole just as easily from the upstairs window.

The slender ghost girl turned away from the sinkhole. Then she felt something brush her middle. She looked down just as a tendril of shadow tightened around her waist. It snatched her off her feet and hauled her down into the sinkhole. Her scream died as quickly as it began.

...

"You're doing it wrong."

Child-sized Tate glanced up from his work. Chad was looking across the dining table at him disapprovingly.

Tate made a face. "It's stamping," he said. He looked at the newsprint he'd been inking. It looked fine to him. "It can't be wrong."

Chad sighed loudly and moved over to the side of the table where the boy was sitting. "If you don't put the stamp down exactly right you get gaps." He stabbed an accusing finger at an area where the border pattern didn't quite meet. "It's not that difficult. Just watch the edge of the stamp, not the top."

Tate squinted at the spot. "I can hardly see that."

"But you _can_ see it," said Chad. "Now you're going to have to fill it in by hand."

"God," Tate said. "You're shitting me."

"Don't curse," Chad said. "And no. I'm not. I told you: It has to be straight."

Patrick eyed both of them. He was trimming corners off craft board and trying to stay out of it but the constant bickering was starting to grate on his nerves.

"It's not going to matter if there's a couple of little places that aren't exactly one-hundred-per-cent perfect," Tate insisted. "Nobody's ever going to look that close."

"I will," said Chad.

Tate rolled his eyes. "Besides you."

Chad left Tate's side to go back to where he'd been dividing up small swatches of colored paper. "If you can't do it right, maybe I should find something easier for you to do."

"I didn't want to do this in the first place!" Tate objected. "I wanted to cut stuff."

"You don't need to be cutting anything," said Chad.

Tears welled up in Tate's eyes. He wasn't sure whether he was being picked on or just paranoid.

"Would you two stop?" Patrick interjected. "Just for a few minutes? I feel like I'm in PBS hell."

"He's ruining the border," sniffed Chad. "Excuse me if that bothers me."

"I'm not ruining it!" Tate fumed, near to crying again. He grabbed the stamp and slammed it down in the pad. Then he stamped the page in random places a few times before smashing the stamp back down on the pad. He folded his arms and glared at Chad. "There! Now it's ruined."

The flash of anger dwindled as soon as Tate registered the outraged look on the man's face.

"Go to your room, young man," Chad ordered, barely keeping himself from squeezing the paper pieces he'd been sorting.

Tate retreated quickly but slowed once he was out of the dining room. He took the stairs just to make the trip to his room take longer. It helped him convert panic back into anger. Why did Chad have to be so anal about stupid things like stamps? It was worse than Mrs. Nora and the baby. He'd certainly looked like Tate had stabbed his baby when he stamped the paper up.

"Ghosts are so fucking weird!" he said as he kicked the bedroom door shut.

He went and sat down on the floor near his bed, back to the wall, and folded his arms over his knees. He tried to remember what life felt like; what being alive felt like. Did it feel like this? He kind of thought it did but everything had been so messed up for so long, he really didn't know what 'normal' was supposed to be. He wasn't sure he'd ever known. But he was certain 'normal' didn't involve freaking out over stamped paper.

The door opened and he looked over. Patrick came in. For an instant Tate was glad to see him - he wasn't Chad, who had looked ready to gut him over the stamping fiasco. But it also meant that Chad had probably sent him. Which was never a good thing at moments like these. Reactionary tears sprang to Tate's eyes.

Pat closed the door and, to the boy's surprise, he came over and sat down beside him. They sat in silence for a few moments then Patrick looked at him.

"Sometimes I feel like doing that too," the man said.

Tate gave him a funny look.

Pat propped a knee up and folded his hands over it. "When we bought this house, we were going to fix it up and resell it. Flip it and get something we could live in." He smiled without humor. "The nursery was the only project we actually finished together." He gave a short sigh. "I can paint walls. Fix things. But I hate crafting. I can't tell you how much I hate it. How much I hate doing it-" He stopped short of saying 'with him'.

"Why do you do it then? I mean, I have to. But you could just say no."

"What else is there to do?" Patrick paused then added: "He and I fight about enough things already. Crafting's something to do to pass the time. Not my personal go-to but... something's better than nothing. So we craft a bit. Eventually he gets tired of telling me I'm wrong and takes over. Fighting with him over it is pointless. You should know that by now. You have to choose your battles in life. It's even more important when you're dead, I think."

Tate felt a snag on his fingernail and chewed on it. "I wasn't trying to battle him. I just got mad."

"...and destroyed his project."

"It was just some paper," Tate said sullenly. He picked at the sole of his shoe now, tearing a bit off.

"You know that's not how he sees it."

Tate frowned. He didn't like where the conversation was going so he stopped participating.

"You're going to have to apologize to him later," Patrick said.

Tate didn't say anything. He just got teary-eyed and kept picking at his sneaker.

"All right," said Patrick. He knew when the lines of communication were dead. He squeezed the boy's shoulder then started to rise. "Let's get this over with."

Tate looked up at him and tears slid down his cheeks. "You don't have to punish me," he said. "You don't even want to."

"That's not the point," Pat said.

"I thought you were going to be cool about this!"

Patrick frowned at him. "When have I ever been cool about you throwing a tantrum?"

There wasn't an instance Tate could name; he didn't even have to think about it. But for some reason he'd thought this might be such a time. He got to his feet slowly. More tears leaked out.

"This sucks," he said emphatically. "This totally fucking sucks! You don't even want to do it!"

Patrick ushered Tate toward the bed and the inevitable. A tawse was the man's weapon of choice, a fork-tongued strap of black leather left over from his living days. He'd picked it up a week or so before he died. It had never actually seen use in life. Its home for the past few years was on a nail in Tate's closet. He went to get it while Tate dropped his bottoms and assumed the position, bent over the bed.

Considering the situation, Patrick went easy on the boy, delivering just ten strokes to his bare backside before letting him up to cry it off. Afterward, Pat took his time hanging the tawse up to give himself a chance to cool down. Without anger to inhibit his libido, he found corporal punishment arousing, which was inconvenient at times like this.

When he finally turned back, Tate had his jeans up despite the discomfort it caused. Technically he had the ability to heal the damage but they had a standing rule that said no rapid healing for 12 hours. Tate had broken that rule once, early on, and suffered for it. He hadn't broken it since.

"Why do you always do what Chad tells you to?" The boy's tears made his words petulant more than accusatory.

Pat went over to where he was and sat down on the end of the bed. "I don't. This wasn't-"

"Yes, you do!" Tate cut him off with a hurt glare. He hadn't finished buttoning his pants; arguing was more important. "You do every single thing he tells you to do!"

"No. I don't."

"Yeah, you do," Tate said. He made another futile attempt to fix his jeans but he was too worked up to concentrate on two things at once. "Name one thing you ever did that wasn't Chad-approved!"

Patrick grabbed his nearest arm and pulled him closer. "Stop being a brat. Do you want a real spanking?"

Tate met the stern look with a sulk and fresh tears. "No."

Patrick scooped him up then and deposited the boy in his lap in a way that kept pressure off Tate's bottom. "What's going on? You've been acting out all week. Are the nightmares getting worse?"

Tate shifted a little and shrugged. "I guess. I don't know." He looked up to make eye contact, brief and unhappy. "I hate my mother."

Patrick gave a short laugh. "Who doesn't? Chad said she was over here again. Did she say something to you?"

"Yeah," Tate said. "She said I should go be by myself."

"Sounds like something she'd say," Patrick said. He put his arms around the boy in his lap. "I don't think she approves of our arrangement."

Tate shifted again, this time so he could see Pat's face better. "Yeah." He thought about it then decided: "I don't care though."

"Good."

...

Violet found Chad later, still sitting at the dining room table, surrounded by his crafting materials. He hadn't gotten anything done since the blow-up over the border but he couldn't bring himself to leave either. He was just sitting there, hands folded, staring at the shambles of his crafting day.

"Am I interrupting?" the girl asked as she wandered in.

He stirred and took on an 'above it all' air. "No, no. You're fine. As you can see, it's just me."

She moved closer to the table and inspected the various papers and tools scattered about. "What are you doing?"

"Scrapbooking," said Chad. He shuffled some papers around aimlessly. "Trying to, anyway. Against all odds."

Violet slid into the seat at the end of the table near him. "I used to have a scrapbook."

Chad blinked at her in open surprise. "You? Seriously?" He looked mildly impressed. "I didn't know you had an artsy side. Must be hiding under all those dreary clothes you pile on."

"I had a whole album," she said. "One of those big ones you use for science projects. I had all sorts of cool stuff in it. Like... I had these bits of confetti that were shaped like spiders and webs, from my first Halloween party. And I had this tiny Queen of Spades card. A friend of mine was on a sticker kick so there was one page we covered all over in the weirdest shit she could find."

"Interesting," said Chad. His tone suggested it might not be. "What happened to your scrapbook?"

Violet found the stamp pad and pressed her finger into it then looked at the mark. "Accidentally got left behind when we moved here. Most of my pictures of my old friends were in it." She smudged her finger on her thumb, smearing the ink about. "I miss it."

"So make a new one." Chad handed her a handi-wipe for the ink. "I have plenty of things here you could use. God knows it would be nice if someone could appreciate them."

Violet took the wipe. "I don't have anything to put in a scrapbook now. I can't exactly take pictures."

"You can still collect things," he said. He noticed she wasn't using the wipe and did a little hand-wave at her till she started cleaning herself. "Draw things. Something tells me you'd be good with a calligraphy pen."

"I don't know..." she hedged, setting aside the used wipe.

"I'm serious," Chad said. He got to his feet, tossed the wipe away and starting digging through his plastic envelope of pens. "Here. Try these." He brought over a packet of 10 pens in varying nib-sizes and styles.

"I really just came to talk to you," Violet said. She found the package of pens thrust into her hand. "About Tate?"

Chad shoved some newsprint at her. "Use this for practice. It's already ruined." Then he seemed to register what she'd said. "What about him?"

"I was just wondering... What is it you and my dad and Patrick have been doing with him?"

Chad sat back down in his chair and folded his arms over his crafting supplies. "I ask myself that same question sometimes." He could see he was only confusing her so he started again. "We've sort of been his in-patient therapy team the past few years. And let me tell you: It hasn't been easy."

"Why do you even care?" Violet asked, genuinely perplexed.

Chad shrugged. "Honestly? I didn't at first. I just wanted Patrick to stop beating the little shit up all the time. It was very distracting." He ignored the shocked look the girl gave him and started sorting his paper swatches. "After a while... I don't know. He sort of grows on you. Like a rash."

Violet looked dubious. She toyed with the pen while she tried to absorb what he was saying. It took her a moment to respond. "I- Do you think I could maybe... watch him sometime? Without him knowing, I mean?"

"I'm amazed you have the manners to even ask. Most people in this house would just turn invisible and do it without asking." Chad sorted a few more sheets of paper. "When do you want to do it?"

"Tomorrow?" she shrugged.

"All right," he said after consideration. "Come to library tomorrow around one. We'll be in there."

She tugged the cap off the pen and experimentally wrote her name. She liked the way the pen slanted on the 'v' and the 't'. She wrote her name again with a bit of a twist.

"Hey," she said after she'd written her name for a fourth time. "These are pretty cool."

Chad inspected her work. "It's not an Illuminated Manuscript," he said. "But... not bad for a first go. Try the others. They all write differently."

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

You have to look close but there is a hug in that chapter, as promised. I know it's not much but hopefully it'll get you through the next turn of the spiral.

Next chapter, we're going back to 2017, just before Christmas again. Before Chad started slipping Tate the meds Ben gave him. Before Rubber Man got caught in Tate's room a 2nd time. The ghosts from _A Christmas Carol _got nothin' on the ghosts of Murder House... or the living, for that matter.


	5. Chapter 5 - Christmas Past

**2017 - 3 weeks before Christmas**

Michael was excited. He was ecstatic. It was the first year he was going to have a birthday party with an actual friend invited. Technically the party was going to be at Ethan's house; the other boy was being invited to a party at his own home, out of consideration for his allergies. But it didn't matter to Michael. It was going to be a real birthday party, not just something with Mama Constance and Father Jeremiah.

As the day drew near the little boy could barely contain himself. He danced about the house. He could hardly sleep at night. Then the day before his party was scheduled to happen he heard Mama Constance scream. He abandoned his writing lesson to find her.

She was downstairs in the mud room, standing at the deep freezer. So was Father Jeremiah. They had found Michael's collection in their search for birthday ice cream.

"What is this?" Mama Constance yelled. "What have you done to my freezer?"

She grabbed a paper cup full of rubbing alcohol from the freezer shelf and staggered over to the boy, slipping in her heeled mules. She shoved the cup in Michael's face. A lizard's head bobbed about in it.

"I want to be a veterinarian," he said.

"So you cut up animals and put them in my freezer?!"

Jeremiah started grabbing the other little cups and plastic bowls from the freezer. He threw them away without looking closely at the contents. Some he couldn't avoid seeing, like the whole baby bird with the intestines trailing out of its bloated belly.

Michael started to cry. "I needed patients..."

She flung the cup on the floor. The lizard head bounced and rolled away. "This is _not_ what good little boys do, Michael!"

Michael cried harder and tried to retreat but she was too fast. She grabbed his arm and dug her manicured nails in. He squealed in pain and fear.

"Constance-" Jeremiah said.

"Not now, Father," she growled. "This is between me and my _good_ little monster."

She dragged the boy out of the room. Jeremiah had to follow. He had to intervene, again, though for the first time he wasn't entirely sure he should. But he did.

She couldn't beat the boy. She couldn't isolate him. So she canceled the birthday party instead.

He would have preferred a beating.

...

Violet sat in the downstairs window seat listening to her mother play the cello. Outside the day was gray, colorless; uninspired. Even the clouds were an indistinct smooth gray blanket overhead. Nearby the Christmas tree sparkled and a fire blazed in the hearth but neither gave any real warmth to the girl. She sighed and traced her finger on the glass.

"I miss weather," she said.

"I don't miss having to defrost the car," Vivien said as she played. "Do you remember that? Having to get up an extra half hour early to shovel out? It was always so dark and cold."

Violet gave a half smile. "It was a pain," she agreed. "But I liked the snow at night. Everything was so quiet. Peaceful." She looked back out to the dull view of the yard. "What I wouldn't give for some snow now. The kind that just hides everything. "

Vivien stopped playing and set her instrument aside. She moved over to join Violet. She put a hand on her daughter's shoulder. There wasn't much comfort she could give so she just stood there, feeling her daughter's mood.

"Do you want to bake some Christmas cookies?" Vivien asked after a while.

Violet smiled and put her hand on her mother's hand. "Sure, mom."

She didn't really want to but she knew it would make her mother feel like she was helping.

Moira and Joshua, in his baby carrier, joined them in the kitchen. Violet arranged the cookie cutters in a row along the island in front of her, each waiting its turn to slice into the dough. She collected a few bottles of sprinkles and lined them up behind the cutters then she watched the older women prep and roll the dough.

"Do you remember your dreams?" she asked no one in particular.

Both of the women glanced at her. It was Vivien who spoke first.

"Sometimes," she said. "Usually just bits and pieces. Like last night? I remember being in a small park or yard or something. It was fall. There was a building somewhere nearby. That's all I can remember."

Moira patted her hands with more flour. "I don't remember my dreams. I'm not sure I even have them anymore."

"I think I'm usually like you, mom," said Violet. "But lately it's like... They're more intense. Or something. I don't know. It's weird."

"What have you been dreaming about, honey?" Vivien prompted. She peeled the wax paper back and checked the dough before pushing it toward her daughter.

"Depressing shit," Violet said. She tugged the wax paper that held the cookie dough closer. "Like... I'll be hanging with my friends back home or something and suddenly they're all just gone. Or I'll be looking for you and dad and I can't find you anywhere. In one dream, I was back at school and there were people all around but nobody would stop and tell me where I needed to be. And I forgot my locker combination."

Vivien felt guilty as she read all kinds of personal messages into those dreams. "I'm sorry, Violet. We should have never... never moved."

Then Violet felt bad. "You had _no_ way of knowing what was going to happen."

Vivien gave her a tiny smile and moved over to the sink to wash her hands. Violet picked up a star-shaped cutter and pressed it into the dough.

"We were so close to getting out of here," said Vivien wistfully.

Moira ran the rolling pin over her sheet of dough. "So were many other souls who're trapped here, Vivien. I think the house can sense things like that."

Vivien dried her hands and went back over to the center island. "You're probably right." She looked around the room, wondering if the house could hear and understand what they were saying. "It does seem like the harder you try to get out of this place, the stronger it holds you."

Violet picked up a snowman next and pressed it into the dough. "Maybe the secret to getting out is to not try."

"Even if you got out, it would call you back," Moira said, fatalistic without meaning to be.

Joshua started to fuss. Since Vivien had her hands clean she lifted him and cradled him close in the crook of her arm. He still fussed but he didn't get any louder about it.

"This sheet is finished," said Moira.

"Help me cut the shapes?" said Violet. She nudged a few of the cutters toward the old maid.

Moira picked up a Santa face. "When I was little I used to help my aunt make gingerbread men at Christmas," she smiled. "I never cared for the taste but I loved to make them with her."

"I never had gingerbread," Violet said.

"Yes, you did," said Vivien. "Don't you remember? They gave out those cookies on sticks after the winter sing-a-long in your sixth grade year."

"That was gingerbread?" Violet made a face. "God. Those were like hockey pucks. Well. I sure won't miss that now that I'm dead."

It was a grim thing to say but the way she said it made them all laugh.

...

Tate, in his normal teen form, brooded in the shadows just outside the kitchen door. Watching the charming scene had stopped being fun several minutes ago and his mood had flat-lined.

He wanted to be in there with them helping make the cookies, not watching from the outside. He wanted to show Violet how creative he could be. He wanted to feed her bits of cookie dough and he wanted Vivien to smile at him like she smiled at Violet. He wanted Moira to just go away. He didn't like her because she didn't like him.

He watched as they got done cutting shapes. They put the cookies into the oven, set the timer and left the room to take the baby to his play gym. Tate entered the kitchen then and poked at the dough scraps left on the counter. He scratched 'I Love You Violet' into one big piece then immediately smashed it. She wouldn't want to see it.

Suddenly angry, he went and wrenched the knob on the oven, setting the temperature 150 degrees higher. The cookies would be ruined. It only gave him a sliver of satisfaction. Very little seemed to please him lately. Michael's canceled party only added to his bad temperament. Leave it to Mama Constance to find a way to crush two generations of hope at once.

He left the kitchen and poked about in the hall. He passed by the sitting room on his way to the stairs and heard arguing. He peeked in and saw Chad and Patrick. They were over by the Christmas tree that the three of them had put together. Tate was too late to get the gist of the argument because Patrick was already heading toward the doorway.

"Do what you want," Pat said over his shoulder. "I seriously don't care."

Chad rolled his eyes, shook his head and turned back to the tree. Patrick brushed by Tate when he left the room. The teenager fell into step behind him.

"What was that about?" asked Tate.

"Nothing," the brown-haired man said irritably. "He says the tree's imbalanced. Apparently we put the decorations on wrong. It's throwing off the alignment of the universe."

"What, he wants to do the ornaments over?"

Patrick paused at the foot of the stairs. "He wants to do everything over," he said. "He says it's all off-balance. He can do it himself. I did it once. I'm done."

"I know you can do it more than once before you're done," said Tate, rocking on his heels.

Pat eyed him then glanced back toward the sitting room. Then he looked at the youth again. "Yeah, well, that's something to keep between us."

"That's the best place to keep it." Tate's smile was inscrutable.

In the weeks since Halloween, Patrick had struggled with guilt and unwholesome desire. A lot. Fresh from dealing with Chad's OCD, he wasn't in the mood to play guessing games with Tate's intentions. He hooked a finger in the teen's hip pocket and tugged him closer. "You're asking for trouble."

Tate let himself be pulled. "Maybe I like trouble." His smile inched wider.

"Yeah," Pat looked him up and down. "I think you do. Why don't we go see how much trouble you can handle?"

"Bring it," said Tate. There would be no backing down. He'd wrestled with his own issues after Halloween but he tended to dwell in the moment: What might bother him later meant very little in the now. Especially when the now promised to get so much better than it had been.

"My room," said Patrick.

"Race ya."

Tate disappeared, foregoing the stairs. Pat smirked and disappeared after him.

...

Things were a bit different between them that time. They used plenty of the lube Pat had in his bedside drawer. He controlled his hunger enough to marvel at the fact that he could make his partner cum several times just by maintaining a deep, steady thrust. His previous lover, the last one Chad had discovered, had enjoyed being a bottom but even he needed a hand out to go over the top. Pat had heard from guys who were lucky enough to find a bottom that really got off on it but actually screwing one was even better than he'd heard.

Not that he didn't provide external stimulation. He introduced Tate to the four-minute blowjob and was pleased when he went to kiss the teen afterward that he kissed back. Chad would have been disgusted at a move like that. Tate wasn't. He'd gotten over the general weirdness of being kissed by a man at Halloween and he kind of liked the taste of himself on Pat's tongue.

They went several rounds, kissing and fondling and licking for only a handful of minutes between, never truly separating. While morally dubious it was an unexpectedly delicious way to recover the afternoon.

By dinnertime Chad had the Christmas tree exactly the way he wanted it and his guilt for going crazy over it led to his making a very nice chocolate truffle for dessert. The truth was neither Tate nor Patrick cared one bit about the way the tree looked. Everyone was in a good mood and got along. It was the most pleasant meal they'd had in weeks. They were about as close to family bliss as it got, in hell.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

This is one of those chapters I feel the need to apologize for. Sorry! I considered sticking a warning on the top of this one but I just couldn't break form. If I start warning you now, I'll feel obligated to warn you later when even more disturbing things come up-

Oops. Was that a spoiler? Or a teaser? Or a threat? Whatever. Getting back to what I was saying... There's actually a reason I got graphic with the Xmas flashback and not just because it's the sex I promised. I generally don't do gratuitous: For everything, a reason. You just won't know what it is till the end of the episode.

Next chapter should be a little easier to handle. It might even make you smile? Consider it a temporary reprieve. Very temporary.


	6. Chapter 6 - Past, Present, Future

**1994 - spring**

Tate sat on the edge of his bed, hands folded tightly between his knees. Lawrence was sitting right next to him, intruding on his room and his personal space. Tate wished he would just go away. But he didn't. He kept sitting there. Talking, talking, even though Tate didn't want to hear what he had to say.

"I understand how tough it is, growing up without a father," Larry said. "My father passed away when I was eleven from a heart attack. Can you imagine? A forty-six year old man having a heart attack."

Tate wished Larry would have a heart attack.

"You know," Larry went on. He didn't seem to notice that Tate didn't care about his stupid stories. "I always wanted to have a son."

Tate looked at him then, sidelong.

Larry noticed that. "It's true. I think every man does. Someone to carry on the family name." He patted Tate's knee. "Your mother and I are going to get married eventually. Then we'll be a real family."

Tate stared at him. Married. He felt like he'd just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. "She doesn't want to marry you."

"Yes, she does, Tate. We're in love. And she knows how important it is for you and your siblings to have a father and a provider."

Tate didn't want to believe what he was hearing but there was a scary ring of truth to it. "You'll never be my father."

Larry looked disappointed. He sighed and patted Tate's knee again. He left his hand there. "I know this isn't easy for you. But if you'd just give things a chance-"

Tate shoved his hand away and stood up. "You're never going to be my dad! Get out of my room! I don't want you here!"

Larry got up and reluctantly went to the door. "You're upset. I understand. But you need to understand that I love your mother. Together we can make this family work."

"Go away!" Tate yelled as loud as he could.

Larry went. Tate felt marginally better. He knew 'go away' didn't really work on the living but just then it kind of seemed like it did. He wished he could make Larry go away. Forever.

The teen sat back down on his bed and put his head in his hands and counted the days. He used to count the days till summer vacation. Now he was counting down to World War T. Sometimes the countdown was the only thing that got him through.

One week before Easter, Beauregard died.

They tried to say he died in his sleep, from respiratory problems, but Tate had seen Larry coming down out of the attic that night. He'd seen the guilt and the horror on the man's face.

What would happen when Constance and Larry grew tired of caring for the rest of her children? Would Addie be next? Or Tate himself? The questions that nagged his thoughts didn't scare the teen. They made him mad. Mad at Larry, mad at his mother, mad at the world that never gave him or his siblings a chance. The dark, dark world. There was no light in it, he was sure. He could only see darkness.

Two weeks after Easter, Tate was dead.

**...**

**2 days after Constance's funeral**

Chad, Patrick and Tate were in the library. Unknown to Tate, Violet was there as well. He just couldn't see her. Everyone else in the room knew she was silently watching.

Chad hadn't prepared her for how Tate would appear so Violet was surprised when he came in looking like a child. She knew men tended to see Moira as much younger but Violet had never seen her as anything but old. Seeing him so young was strange.

He was a cute little guy. The hair and clothes screamed Chad but the attitude was all Tate. She watched them browse about individually then regroup at the fireplace settee. Chad and Patrick each took one of the reading chairs. Tate sat on the floor. Violet leaned on the back of one of the empty reading chairs. She couldn't help staring at the boy. It looked like Tate and yet didn't.

She wondered briefly if she could shrink down in age and decided that she didn't want to try it. The idea felt as strange as the notion of wanting to be old, like Moira.

"What did you get?" Chad asked the boy as he picked through the three he'd grabbed for himself.

"Just a collection of some old poems. It's got scans of the originals in it. The hand-written stuff," answered Tate. He started flipping through the oversized pages, listing poets as he went. "Keats. Byron. Shelley."

He paused on a page. "Hey. I thought all these poet guys were gay. But look at this copy of Shelley's 'Ozymandias'."

He turned the book around so the other guys could see what he saw. It was in the exact opposite direction of Violet.

"Tell me that doesn't look like a vagina," Tate said.

Violet moved to improve her view.

"Tate!" Chad scolded.

"..he's right," Pat said. "It does."

Violet only got a glimpse of the page before Tate moved the book again. She couldn't see the controversial poetry.

"That's still not appropriate," said Chad. He gave Patrick the evil eye and then looked at Tate. "Go get a different book. Put that one back where you found it."

The boy closed the book, disappointed. "You're the last person I'd expect to censor art."

"I'm not censoring art, Tate," Chad said. "I'm censoring you."

Tate took the book back to the shelf it came from and poked around a bit more. Violet made a mental note of where he put the book, for later reference. It wasn't that she wanted to see the anatomy. She just wanted to judge for herself whether it looked like what they said. She suspected it might or Chad wouldn't have objected so much.

She found the whole thing amusing.

Chad took Tate's new book before he could sit down with it. Only once he'd skimmed through it did he let the boy have it back.

"Chad-approved," Tate murmured to himself. He sat down cross-legged, ignoring the icy look the man gave him.

Chad was beginning to wish he'd cheated and told Tate he would be under surveillance.

"You have a session with Doctor Harmon later, don't you?" he said while flipping through a cook book.

"Yeah," said Tate. "Hey, did you know bird's nest soup is actually made with bird spit?"

Chad made a sour face. "Third world gourmet. Yum." He shut his book and put an elbow on it. He propped his chin lightly on his fist. "Don't forget to tell him about the dreams."

Tate rolled his eyes and turned the page of his book. Patrick sent a flat look Chad's way.

"You also need to ask him about using the laptop to study for your GED," Chad added.

"I don't need to study," Tate said as he turned the page. "I just need to take the test. I don't know why you want me to though. It's not like it's going to help me get a job."

Violet moved to look over Tate's shoulder at the book he was looking at. It was a photo-filled one about 'Lords of the Air'. A bird book.

It was strange being so close to him. Regardless of what he looked like, though, it was the closest she'd allowed herself to get to Tate in years. She found it virtually impossible to see the monster she knew was lurking in the little boy beside her.

She decided it was time to leave.

...

Ben had been on edge ever since he found that strange baby in his office. When he'd finally gathered the nerve to go back into the room, the child was gone without a trace. But Ben was sure of what he'd seen. Just as he was sure he knew who was responsible. So he'd stressed out privately through the days, debating whether to confront Hayden. But he wasn't ready. Not yet.

So he kept to his schedule. He hoped routine would help put him at ease.

He let Tate in and had a seat in his rolling chair. Tate climbed over the arm of the couch and dropped himself onto the cushions, growing up to his teen state as he did. He bounced about till he was comfortable then looked over at Ben.

"I'm supposed to tell you that the dreams are waking me up again," he said.

"You're telling me this because you want me to know?" asked Ben, even though he already knew the answer. "Or because someone else wanted me to know?"

Tate smiled. "Chad says hi."

Ben gave a half-smile and looked at the notes on his pad. "Right." He jotted something down. "I could give you something to help you stay asleep."

"You know I don't want that shit, doc," Tate said. He tugged on his thumb ring, twisting it around.

"Hey," Ben said, hands up. "No pressure. I just want you to know your options."

"I don't think I'll forget that one."

Ben shifted in his chair, getting more comfortable. "So is there anything particular on your mind today?"

"Always," said Tate. He also got more comfortable, slouching so that he was almost laying down. He steepled his fingers together above his middle. "I think my mother is a whore." He looked at Ben sincerely then. "I mean it. I think she actually fucks people for money. "

Ben nodded slowly and wrote that down. "And what's led you to this conclusion?"

"Well. I can't remember her ever having a real job. Odd jobs, yeah, but nothing that would pay our bills. Especially the medical shit for Beau and Addie. Then there were all those boyfriends. I mean, some of them, like Travis, she wasn't fucking them for money. But others... They had to have been giving her something other than the high hard one."

"Do you think it's possible that she had an insurance policy?" Dr. Harmon suggested.

Tate mulled that over. He hadn't considered that. "I guess maybe. She woulda had to have my dad declared dead for that though."

"Does that bother you?"

Tate shrugged without actually thinking about that question. "Nah. It's the sort of shit thing she'd do to get him back for not paying child support." He rolled to his side and propped his head with one hand. "I still think she was a whore though. Hey, you remember that Halloween we took that exterminator guy's bones out to the pier?"

Ben's brows lifted a little at the sudden subject change. "Yes..?"

"Can we do something like that again sometime?"

The therapist gave him an odd look. "You want to go dump another corpse together?"

Tate laughed. "No, Doctor Harmon. That's pretty funny though. I mean, you're the first guy I'd want to bury somebody with, if I had to. I just meant maybe... like, maybe near Halloween we could go get some coffee or something. You and me. No corpses involved."

"Sure, Tate," said Ben with a mild smile. He propped his ankle on his knee. "What's got you thinking about that?"

The teenager pulled on his sleeve cuff, hooking it over his thumb. "I just liked doing something with you. I like doing stuff with you in general."

Ben studied his patient. As much as the compliment stroked his ego, he couldn't take anything Tate said at face value. "You said your mother had a lot of boyfriends... Any long-term ones?"

"Just Larry," said Tate, making a face as he said the name complete with one arm drawn up in a comic impression of the man's handicap. It made Ben smile. "There were a couple others but nobody that actually lived with us or anything," Tate went on. "Funnily enough, most guys find two special needs kids a huge turn off where commitment's concerned. But you'd be surprised how many'll put up with the situation long enough to get their rocks off."

"You seem fixated on your mother's sex life," said Dr. Harmon.

Tate blinked at him, brows furrowing. "After this place we lived in a pretty small shithole of a house and she fucked a lot. It was either listen to her or watch _Tales from the Darkside _reruns. Usually both."

"You could hear..?"

"Yeah," the teen pushed himself upright. "Fucked up, huh?"

Ben wrote some quick notes. "In modern American society it's not practiced but there are many places around the world where families share a single-room home. I don't think there's anything inherently damaging about knowing when a parent is engaging in intercourse or even seeing the act. Some sociologists have suggested promiscuity stems from not having enough living examples of sex to learn from."

"You think people should learn how to fuck from their parents?" Tate boggled. "You're more twisted than I thought, Doctor Harmon!" He was impressed.

Ben smiled mildly. "No. I don't think that. There _are_ some people who believe that if we're exposed to the act more before we actually try it that we'll make less coupling errors. I'm just trying to reassure you that knowing a parent is having intercourse doesn't necessarily have to be a scarring event."

"Do you want to see your parents have sex?" Tate asked.

Ben's smile faded. "My mother gave up custody of me when I was a toddler. I never knew my father."

Tate sat up a little straighter. "Really? Wow. Were you adopted?"

He shook his head. "No. Fostered a couple of times but nothing ever... clicked."

"That's rough," Tate said sympathetically. "I knew a kid once who lived in one of those group homes. It was like prison. I went to juvenile hall once and it was a cake-walk compared to what that guy's life was like. Which is totally wrong."

Ben nodded. "Not an easy life," he said, deliberately understating things. "But then few are."

"It's no wonder you became a shrink," decided Tate. He chewed on his thumbnail then added: "Probably saw all sorts of crazies, huh? Did you ever get stuck with a family like the ones in the papers?"

"No," said Ben. "Nothing that interesting. One was just in it for the paycheck. One was a nice family but they had no clue how to handle a boy who'd never had a family."

"What happened?"

"I ran away. After that I couldn't get placed," said Ben. "Too old. Too much trouble."

"That blows," said Tate around his thumbnail. He lowered his hand. "So you never got to do any father-son stuff either, huh?"

Ben gave a soft, humorless laugh. "No, not really."

"We could do that stuff," suggested Tate. He got up and wandered over to the rocking chair but he didn't sit down. "I mean, we can't go play street hockey or stuff like that but we could, I d'know. Watch bowling."

"Bowling?"

"I don't know!" Tate said. "What do dads and sons do? I'm pretty sure it's not what I've been doing with Pat and Chad."

"I don't really know, Tate," the doctor said. "I don't think it would be a very good idea."

"Why not?" Tate asked, hurt.

Ben could think of several reasons, beginning with Vivien and ending with Patrick but he simply said: "I just don't think it would be a good idea."

"Okay," Tate said. But his eyes were full of wounded tears. "It's cool. I was just thinking it'd be something to do."

"Let's save it for Halloween," Ben offered.

Hope replaced sorrow, leaving a couple of tear streaks down Tate's cheeks. "Okay. Sure. Yeah," he smiled and dropped into the rocking chair.

"Right now," said Doctor Harmon. He set aside his notepad. "I'd like to talk about lucid dreaming."

"Lucid dreaming?" Tate pulled both of his sleeves over his hands. "Is that like the Native Americans do?"

"Not exactly. You're thinking of waking-dreaming, where a waking mind drops into dream state. I'm talking about recognizing you're having a dream while you're still asleep. It's a method of nightmare control," the doctor said. "A... type of therapy that helps train you to realize when you're having a nightmare so you can escape it, without having to wake up."

Tate looked skeptical and started rocking in the rocking chair, just a little bit. "Does it work?"

Ben shrugged. "It works for some people. It's not a drug so I thought you might want to give it a try."

Tate rubbed his sweater-covered thumbs over his chin as he thought. "What would I have to do?"

"Nothing much," Dr. Harmon reassured. "I'd just have to sit with you a few nights while you sleep. When you have a nightmare, I'll be there to help you recognize it before it brings you fully out of REM. "

That didn't sound so bad to Tate. "It's okay with me, I guess. Do I have to do anything but sleep?"

Ben smiled. "Nope. Not a thing."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

For the record, there is a scan of Shelley's 'Ozymandias' on display at Wikipedia.

Check out my Profile for my song list. I updated it. It's long but really worth the listen.

One more chapter to go for this episode. Brace yourself. It's not pretty.

Episode 5 is called **Ghost House **and dips into a few different points in the house's history. It's partly named after my favorite Claire McNally book. Check for it soon!


	7. Chapter 7 - Fallout

**2018 - 2 days after the funeral (cont.)**

"No. Absolutely not." Patrick folded his arms.

He was the only one standing. Chad and Tate, in his child form, were both seated on the sofa in the living room. They were both looking at him.

"Why not?" asked Tate, confused. "He thinks it'll work."

Pat looked at Chad, who raised his brows.

"Well," Chad said, smoothing a hand back over his black hair. He looked at Tate then back to Patrick. "I think it should be Tate's choice. They're his dreams."

That was not what Pat wanted to hear. Knowing what he knew, he thought Chad ought to be siding with him. He flexed his arms absently, releasing pent-up anxious energy. Ben's plan for dream therapy didn't sit well with him at all.

Tate drew his knees up to his chest. He felt pressured. He didn't like that feeling. Tears welled up but he tried to blink them back. "He's just going to teach me how to know when I'm having a nightmare so I can stop having it."

"Sure he is," Patrick said, unbelieving. He paced a couple of steps. He came to a quick decision. "Fine. But one of us is going to be staying in there as long as Ben is. I want to know what he's doing."

Chad pressed the fingertips of his hand to his temple. "That won't be awkward."

"He's not going to do anything," Tate said, on the verge of tears again. He found Patrick's behavior odd because he didn't understand its root. He didn't know about Ben's visits as Rubber Man. "He's just going to sit there and tell me when I'm dreaming."

"Yeah," said Patrick. "We'll see." He left the room then, in a bad temper.

Chad and Tate looked at each other.

Chad smiled dryly. "He took that well."

...

But that wasn't the end of it. Once Tate was in bed for the night, Patrick followed Chad to his room. His bad mood was a palpable thing. For Chad it was like being followed by a storm cloud.

"I'm guessing you're not here to wish me goodnight," he said. He pulled open his pajama drawer.

"You know this is just Ben's excuse to start creeping around again," said Patrick.

Chad poked around in his drawer, pretending to decide what to wear. "Could you act _more_ like a jealous boyfriend? I don't think Doctor Harmon has seen quite enough to label you a pederast yet."

Patrick's jaw set. "Don't even go there. You know that's not what this is about."

Chad pushed the drawer shut hard without getting any clothes out of it.

"Bull. Shit." He turned to the taller man, meeting him glare for glare. "You don't care about what happens to that little psycho. You just can't stand the thought of sharing your toy with another man."

Pat scowled. "Tate's not my toy. You're the one who acts like he's some sort of pet."

"Oh." Chad put a hand on his hip. "So you're telling me you're _not_ fucking him?"

The conversation halted. They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Chad looked at the floor. He pursed his lips and a put a hand on the dresser to steady himself. He wanted to cry but he wasn't going to. Not in front of Patrick. The elephant had been in the room for a while. Nothing had changed.

When he finally looked at his estranged spouse he saw a touch of sympathy in Pat's expression, mingled with a whole mess of unhappier things. The last thing Chad wanted was pity from him. It just made him angry all over again.

"Maybe you should make an appointment with Doctor Harmon for yourself," he said airily, pulling his dresser drawer open again. "I'm sure he'd_ love_ to explore your weird fetishes with you."

Patrick didn't respond. He just left. Chad put a hand over his eyes. He tried to tell himself that he wouldn't cry.

It didn't work.

...

Patrick should have gone to his room after the argument but he didn't. In fact it was because of it that he went to Tate's room instead. He was already suffering the consequences for crossing that line; there was little to lose by crossing it one more time. Chances were Chad expected him to anyway. So why the hell not?

If the boy had been asleep when he entered the room, Pat might have turned away. But he wasn't. Tate sat up a little when the door opened. He didn't say anything when the door closed again. He made room in the bed when Patrick slid under the covers.

"Age up."

The words were an insistent whisper in Tate's ear. Hands were already on him, pulling at his clothes. He shifted to his older form and then Patrick was kissing him, deep and demanding. The teen didn't understand the urgency but fed into it anyway, not realizing he was throwing gasoline on fire.

Their sporadic sexual encounters had been a rough but rewarding source of pleasure he thought he understood. He couldn't anticipate the level Patrick would take it to that night. It hurt so bad and felt so good at the same time. The pleasure-pain was so intense, Pat had to keep both hands pressed over Tate's mouth to quiet his tortured cries. He was silenced but his tears flowed freely.

Several times Patrick paused to ask if he wanted to keep going. It gave Tate the illusion of control; Pat knew exactly what he was doing and just how close to orgasm his partner was each time he stopped. To answer Tate had to nod since the older man didn't lift his hands to let him speak. It went on like that for nearly an excruciating hour. When Patrick finally let him cum, he also released him from the restrictive tucked-up position he'd held him in, into a more intimate missionary one. Then he kissed it all better as he worked toward his own climax.

Once upon a time Patrick had been straight. He'd learned a lot about the male body since then and he used that knowledge now in a deliberate attempt to influence his young lover. He did it with touch, he did it with body language and with soft murmurs of praise. He preyed on what he knew Tate desired and rewarded him with it.

It was all sinfully manipulative and ruthless. Patrick felt somewhat guilty laying there afterward. Not as guilty as he might have thought, considering it was arguably his lowest point. The fight with Chad felt much further away but his animosity toward Ben remained. It was ultimately Ben's fault that things were happening the way they were.

He felt Tate stir. Pat draped an arm over him and pulled him close, a move that was possessive more than tender.

...

It was still dark out when Ben went down to the front room in the early hours of morning. Vivien had left the bedroom to go rock the baby so she didn't see him leave. He wasn't sleep-walking but he wasn't entirely in control of himself either. He was along for the ride, unresisting. He went over to where the black rubber hood had been forgotten by Chad and Tate. He picked it up. Then he carried it up to the attic.

He went directly to the shadowed corner where the rest of the rubber suit hung. He didn't know others had tried to get rid of it so it being there wasn't a surprise to him. It would have surprised him if it hadn't been there.

As he stared at the sinister suit he knew what he needed to do next. He could see the plan roll out like a clearly-marked map. He reached for the black rubber outfit.

...

A few minutes after one in the morning Jeremiah rose from the couch and went out onto the front porch. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He could see a light in one of the upstairs windows next door. A strong gust of wind whipped down the street, carrying leaves and debris with it. He felt like he was dreaming but he knew he wasn't.

He put his hands on the rail of the porch and closed his eyes. He could see the blight reaching for him, curling over his hands and pawing at his feet. It was everywhere. He opened his eyes, unaware of the way the shadows blacked them out. He put his hand over the pendant he wore beneath his shirt.

"O Lord, they are multiplied that afflict me," he said quietly. "Many are they that rise up against me. Many say to my soul: there is no salvation for him in his God. But thou, O Lord, art my protector, my glory and my savior. Amen."

He pulled the chain from his shirt and pressed his lips to the seal of Samael. He could feel the opposing energies receding before he even got the pendant back under his shirt. But they didn't retreat far. Just enough to give him his space back and allow for clearer thought.

When he looked back toward the house next door, the light was gone.

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

That's it for Episode 4. Still with me?

Oh, good. I'd hate to lose you. I don't want to deal with this nightmare alone.

BTW, if you don't know who Samael is, you may want to check out Wikipedia's entry on him. Just don't believe everything you read.

Next Episode we'll be wandering all over the house and timeline. Less psychological squickiness, more angst and anger. Lots of ghosts. Keep an eye out for **American Horror Story Season 1.5 - Episode 5: Ghost House**.

This episode scored a Bram Stoker on "I Write Like...". Woo! I'm totally all right with that.


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